BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF I’M TRAVELLING ALONE
SAMUEL BJØRK DEAD ISLAND
‘Genuinely gripping and with a wonderful heroine, it is sensational’
DAILY MAIL
DEAD ISLAND
Also by Samuel
Bjørk
I’m Travelling Alone
The Owl Always Hunts at Night
The Boy in the Headlights
The Wolf
DEAD ISLAND
Samuel Bjørk
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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First published in Great Britain in 2024 by Bantam an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Samuel Bjørk 2023
English translation copyright © Charlotte Barslund 2024
Samuel Bjørk has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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DEAD ISLAND
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, Mum, it’s me.’
‘Jonathan, where are you?’
‘I’m at Erik’s, we’ve been crabbing.’
‘But Jonathan, it’s almost nine o’clock. And you know we’re going to Granny’s tomorrow morning, don’t you?’
‘I know, Mum, but listen— ’
‘No, absolutely not.’
‘What? But you don’t even know what I was going to ask ’
‘You want to ask if you can stay over.’
‘Please can I, Mum? Please, please, please?’
‘No, Jonathan, you can’t. We have to make an early start.’
‘Can you come and get me then?’
‘No, I’ve had a glass of wine so I can’t drive. Besides, what about your bike? You’ve got your bike there, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, but— ’
‘Good. Then I’ll see you soon, all right?’
‘OK, Mum.’
ONE SATURDAY
Chapter 1
Dorothea Krogh was relaxing on the terrace outside the white vicarage, smiling at the sunlight that sparkled in the sea on the horizon. It had been an amazing summer. Perhaps the best ever on the island. The doom-mongers claimed it was the result of climate change. That the planet was heating up, that soon we would need a new Noah’s Ark, but Dorothea Krogh had stopped listening to the doommongers. Although ‘doom-mongers’ plural was an exaggeration; it was really only one person, Nora Strand, the pessimistic verger who had just been to visit her. Talk about a downer. Nora Strand was an eternal spinster and chronically offended by everything between heaven and earth, including, of course, the new altarpiece.
‘Sponsors in a church? Since when was Mammon in charge of God?’
Dorothea Krogh could see her point, but she also knew that the church was in need of renovation. A new roof. A fresh lick of paint. And that government funds were far from enough. A gift from a more affluent member of the congregation – where was the harm in that?
Hitra was a beautiful island off the coast of Trøndelag county, where she had lived her entire life. The landscape still took her breath away. The smell of seaweed and kelp. Of salty waves washing over the rocks. It was as if God had taken the best of everything he had ever made and created heaven on earth. The light. The sea. The rugged mountains. The windswept trees. It was an oasis. This small island community had been a hidden gem until one family made good and now had more money than pretty much all of Norway put together.
SAMUEL BJØRK
Henry Prytz. He was the founder and owner of Royal Arctic Salmon. Once he had been just an ordinary farm boy, now he was a billionaire, one of the richest men in the world, responsible for the salmon bonanza on the Trøndelag coast, but not everyone thought that was entirely fair.
‘As if that family didn’t have enough already. Are they hoping to buy the church next?’
Dorothea Krogh shook her head and realized that she was still irritated by the permanently grumpy verger, who had turned up unannounced and cast shade over this beautiful day. No, she decided, she was not going to let that woman get to her. Dorothea Krogh got up in the glorious light and cleared away the coffee cups and the biscuits. The clock by the window showed a quarter to eleven: was it too early for a small glass of port? No, of course it wasn’t. Surely she could decide that for herself now that the old vicar had gone to meet his maker. She had carried the bottle and a small glass outside in the blazing sun when her mobile began vibrating on the table.
Oh, for goodness’ sake! Would she never get a moment’s peace? She had so been looking forward to getting started on today’s crossword.
Dorothea heaved a sigh and pressed the green button.
‘Yes, Dorothea speaking.’
‘Please can you come up here?’
The new vicar sounded exactly as he always did. Anxious and fussy, if possible more than usual. She had noticed it the first time she met him. Aren’t vicars meant to reassure people rather than make them more worried than they already are? But then again, she had thought, he would probably grow into his role. He was young and a townie, give him a few years’ experience and he would settle in. Except almost a year had passed now and he still seemed like a lost soul who didn’t know what to do with himself.
‘You have to come up here, something has happened—’
‘Have the chickens escaped again? They’re allowed to roam, you know. They’ll come back eventually.’
‘What? No, no, that’s not it. It’s the new altarpiece – you really
need to see it for yourself. Are you at home? Please would you come up here?’
Dorothea sighed again and set down her port.
‘Now?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Can’t it wait until tonight?’
‘No, no, I think it’s a punishment. From above. I kept saying we should never have accepted that gift—’ The young vicar sounded almost on the verge of tears.
‘Give me two minutes.’
‘Thank you. I’m in the sacristy.’
‘I’ll be there shortly.’
Dorothea Krogh put away the port and the glass and went to the hallway to get her straw hat. It clearly wasn’t going to be a day of rest for her. First the vexatious verger and now the fragile young vicar. Perhaps the time had come? For her to leave the vicarage and move to the retirement flat in Fillan she had been offered?
Yes, she would give it serious consideration.
She had just left her home when she spotted a figure in the churchyard who made her retreat.
Oh, no. Was that today?
She glanced quickly at her mobile: 16 July.
Of course.
Dorothea didn’t want to stare, but she couldn’t help herself.
Anita Holmen.
His mother. In front of the empty grave.
Three years ago. Here, on safe little Hitra.
Her son had been cycling home from a friend’s house, and since then no one had seen him. Jonathan Holmen had been only eight years old.
Dorothea felt ashamed now. She should have gone over and talked to her much earlier. The poor woman had lost her son. It was about time.
Dorothea Krogh was Trøndelag born and bred and she had learned to keep her nose out of other people’s business, but surely there were limits.
Three years.
SAMUEL BJØRK
Without a trace of the child. No, the time had come.
Dorothea Krogh put on her straw hat and marched with determined steps towards the churchyard.
Chapter 2
Mia Krüger woke up to the familiar screeching of gulls, but everything else had changed. Last night, the dark-haired homicide investigator had been sitting on the rocks, gazing across the sea, struggling to understand the person she used to be. The sight that had met her in the old white house she had bought on this remote island had shocked her. My former self. She had felt sick as she cleared up the living room. Pills of every shape and colour, some prescription drugs, others from places she would rather forget that she had been. Empty, clattering bottles of alcohol on the floor and on the chairs. But the calendar had been the worst. The date she had circled: 18 April. The day she had decided to die. Be done with it all. Be reunited with her twin sister, Sigrid, who had left this world ten years ago in a filthy basement in Oslo with a needle in her arm. All of them were gone. Her mother, her father. Her grandmother, who had been so like her, who had understood Mia better than she understood herself. ‘You see things other people don’t, don’t you, Mia?’ Her entire family. All of them dead. And then all the wretchedness. She had worked as a homicide investigator in an elite unit led by Holger Munch in Mariboesgate 13 in Oslo. The most disturbing cases. Her responsibility. The misery of the world. On her shoulders.
But not any more.
Mia flung the light summer duvet aside and wandered across the creaking floor. The curtains fluttered in the gentle breeze. Seven weeks ago she had quit her job as a homicide investigator, and she had lived out here ever since. Alone. On Edøya. Her very own island. A short boat trip from Hitra. The sun was high in the sky
SAMUEL BJØRK
and the crystal-clear water shimmered quietly below the rocks. When she was last here, she had been completely oblivious to it all. Drugged. Numbed. Off her face. Counting down the days on the calendar. Coming back here had been a shock to the system, with all her senses alive and her body clean. She had got her head straight, and the lump in her stomach was also starting to disappear, the one she hadn’t even known she had.
‘You see things other people don’t, don’t you, Mia?’
She went to the bathroom and forced herself to pause in front of the mirror. She had stood like this just over a year ago. Her eyes hazy and swimming. Her long, dark hair hanging limply over her cheeks. Thin, underweight in fact, almost dead already. She had counted her injuries. The physical legacy from ten years with the police. The missing two joints on one little finger. The scar above her left eye.
Mia removed the dressing from her hip with care and was delighted to see how well her most recent injury was healing. Her last case. A stalker. He had shot her from close up. First in her calf, then in her hip. She moved closer to the mirror, studying the wound; the scar tissue looked good. Another day or two and she could ditch the dressing completely. Finally she would be able to get into the sea. Go diving again. She had longed to jump in for a swim from the moment she had moored her boat to the jetty. Her very own jetty. Her very own island. Her emotions had threatened to overpower her. Mia Krüger didn’t cry very often, but she had shed a tear on her way up to this lovely house.
She was alive.
But only by the skin of her teeth.
She had been lucky.
If Munch hadn’t travelled up here to find her and suggest a case that had brought her back to Oslo . . .
She was better now.
Much better.
Mia sent thoughts of gratitude out into the ether and stepped under the shower. She wondered how much longer she would stay out here at the mouth of the fjord; a few more weeks was tempting,
but no, she had made a promise. And it would be autumn soon. And then winter. The January storms out here, no, she definitely didn’t fancy them, she had to find another home before that. The houses in Åsgårdstrand, her parents’ and her grandmother’s, had been sold long ago. So, too, had the flat she had once owned in Oslo. For a long time Mia had been pondering what to do next. She and Sigrid had always fantasized about travelling to northern Thailand and opening a small bar, but she couldn’t really see herself doing that now.
But then her old friend Chen had called.
‘Hey, Mia, I hear you’re looking for something to do? That you’re done with the police?’
Her old coach was now running a climbing camp in southern France. Teenagers who had got off to a bad start in life were given the chance to do battle with a rock face while Chen in turn could finance his eternal hunt for new, almost impossible climbing routes.
‘I need more instructors. Why don’t you join me down here?’
Perfect.
She stepped out of the shower, just the thought of it making her smile.
Being out here on Edøya on her own? Sure, it was great. But she couldn’t stay here for ever. So how about climbing in France for a few years? There were worse ways to live, surely?
Still smiling to herself, Mia went down to the kitchen, made herself an espresso and walked barefoot out on to the smooth rocks, already warmed by the morning sunshine. The light out here was incredible, almost supernatural. Day and night. She was nearly grateful that her car was in the garage being serviced so she got a few more days on her island before she had to leave.
‘I’ll be with you as soon as the Jaguar has been fixed, all right?’
‘Absolutely, you just turn up whenever you can.’
Her car. She would need to check on it today, and shop for supplies. Mia was about to wander back to her house when she saw a boat chug across the bay.
Who might that be?
She knew no one out here.
SAMUEL BJØRK
Mia put on a pair of jeans and walked across the rocks. A small dinghy steered by a young girl, not yet a teenager. She could not be more than ten or eleven, with long, blonde, billowing hair, and was wearing a floral summer dress.
‘Are you the famous detective?’
The girl climbed eagerly out of the dinghy and on to the jetty. ‘Are you?’
Mia smiled. ‘I might be. Who are you, then?’
‘You have to help me.’
Mia could see the urgency in the girl’s eyes now.
‘I’m Sofia. It was my fault. That Jonathan disappeared. Can you help me? Please?’
Chapter 3
Luca Eriksen got up from his desk, walked over to a wall in his study and took down the picture of his wife. He carried it solemnly across the room, then put it carefully into a drawer, sat down and stared vacantly into the air. He had to remove as many memories as he could. Her clothes. Her personal possessions. Box them all up. Throw them out – if he was able to. And if he wasn’t, then store them somewhere. He couldn’t look at them every day. He could put them in the attic, perhaps, or in the basement. As many things as possible. Including all the pictures. Not do what he had done so far, which was to sit alone every night in the empty house with his laptop, watching the old videos, the same ones, over and over, his fingers caressing her beautiful face.
‘Tell me you’re not filming again, Luca. Oh, stop it, I haven’t done my hair yet. I look a sight.’
He got up again, fetched himself a cup of coffee, then stopped with the cup in his hand. It was one year, three months and four days since he had lost her and he missed her so badly that at times he didn’t know what to do with himself.
‘Hitra Police, Luca Eriksen speaking.’
‘There has been an accident.’
‘Where?’
‘In the tunnel. A car strayed into the opposite lane. It’s total chaos here.’
‘Have you called 112?’
‘Yes, the emergency services are on their way . . . but, Luca?’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Amanda.’
SAMUEL BJØRK
‘What?’
‘Amanda. It’s her car.’
Luca Eriksen had a change of heart: suddenly he felt nauseous, and he hurried back to his desk, opened the drawer, returned the photograph to its proper place and caressed the glass.
‘I’m sorry, Amanda.’
He nearly jumped when the phone on his desk started ringing. Maybe he should have listened to the advice he had been given. ‘I don’t think you should return to work yet, Luca. It’s still too soon for you. You need to give yourself more time.’
Not go back to work?
No, he had to go to work.
Sit at home? Without her?
With nothing to do. That would be awful. He had to return to the real world.
Be of use.
Luca Eriksen pulled himself together and found his official voice before he picked up the handset.
‘Hitra Police, Luca speaking.’
‘Hi, Luca, it’s Dorothea Krogh. Do you have a minute?’
‘Of course, Dorothea, what is it?’
‘There has been a small incident in the church. The vicar is a bit upset. Do you think you could come down here, or are you busy?’
Luca smiled to himself. Busy?
Hitra police station was open two days a week, from ten in the morning until two in the afternoon, which told you pretty much everything you needed to know about the amount of crime on the small island. Previously he used to commute to Orkanger on the mainland to work at the police station there in addition to his two days on the island, but he had taken some notice of the advice he had been given and returned only to his part-time job on Hitra. Now he worked only Mondays and Wednesdays. Wednesdays.
‘Oh, do we have to have this discussion every Wednesday, Luca? Surely once a month is enough?’
Her face in the mirror. The expression he knew so well, a little
irritated, but not really, the jingling of her car keys, the scent of her perfume as her lips brushed his cheek.
‘And try to play a bit better today, would you? I’m fed up with losing.’
Four couples. Always the same people. Laughing and drinking, with him invariably ending up as the designated driver.
Today was a Saturday, and he shouldn’t really be working, but of course he would respond. He always answered his phone whenever someone called.
‘Are you there, Luca?’
‘Yes, sorry, Dorothea. Please would you say that again?’
‘There has been a small incident in the church. It’s probably nothing, but you know what the vicar is like – he’s such a fusspot. Do you think you could pop round?’
‘Of course, I’m on my way there now.’
‘Great, see you shortly.’
Like a robot.
That was how he felt at times.
As if he were a machine.
He took no joy in anything these days.
He woke up in the big bed. Alone.
He cleaned his teeth. Alone.
He ate breakfast. Alone.
He sat in front of the black TV screen at night. Alone.
Luca Eriksen got up with a heavy heart, took the car keys from the hook by the door and walked down the steps. For a moment he just sat behind the steering wheel before he finally pressed the button to open the garage door and drove the police car out into the sun.
It was sunny outside. At least that was something. So far it had been a lovely summer, one of the best for years. The bad weather had been one of the reasons behind his original reluctance.
‘There’s a vacancy for a teacher on Hitra, Luca. What do you
SAMUEL BJØRK
think? How about we move north? Perhaps we can live in my childhood home? Wouldn’t that be romantic?’
Coincidences. The butterfly effect. If one thing hadn’t happened, then neither would the other. If he had said no back then, she would still have been alive today.
It had been perfect.
Love at first sight.
He had moved to Oslo to go to the National Police Academy. He hadn’t been looking for a relationship, not really. He had been too busy doing his own thing – exercise. Running. He lived for that. He got up every morning at six. He wore out several pairs of running shoes that year, and that was how he had met her. A twenty-yearold teacher-training student working part-time in a shoe shop in Majorstua.
Amanda.
From Hitra.
Dorothea Krogh was waiting for him on the church steps.
‘Hi, Luca. How are you?’
‘Oh, you know, not too bad.’
‘You’re always welcome at the vicarage, you know that, don’t you? If you need someone to talk to.’
‘Thank you. You said there had been an incident?’
‘I don’t know what else to call it. It’s probably just a prank. I only called you because the vicar insisted. You know how he worries, poor thing. In fact, he has gone to lie down. Come with me, I’ll show you.’
He followed her up the steps.
‘It’s this way.’
They walked down the central aisle, then Luca stopped and looked curiously at the wall behind the pulpit.
A large new altarpiece had replaced the old one. Luca smiled and shook his head slightly.
‘Right, now I see what all the fuss is about.’
‘You do?’ The old woman turned to him.
‘You think it’s too much?’
‘Well, I’m not sure—’
‘Too much salmon? That’s what I’m wondering. If someone is so annoyed with us that they’ve decided to send us a message.’
She walked over to a small cloth spread across the floor of the sanctuary.
‘These were hanging from the altarpiece.’
Dorothea Krogh pulled back the fabric and stepped aside.
On the floor lay three dead crows.
‘A bit gross, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, I agree.’
Luca knelt down and picked up one of the birds from the stone floor.
‘What happened to its eyes?’
Dorothea Krogh grimaced.
‘Someone gouged them out.’
‘Yuck.’ He carefully put down the bird.
‘And then, well, there’s the other thing, I don’t know if it’s a message or what it is.’
Dorothea Krogh pointed to a metal tag attached to one of the bird’s legs.
Luca turned over the bird and looked at the engraved characters.
‘KTTY3?’
‘Don’t ask me. I have no idea what it means. Perhaps it was tagged. By ornithologists, I mean. But I wouldn’t know. And it’s still a bit gross.’
‘And they were hanging on the altarpiece?’
‘Yes. This morning. What do you think?’
The old woman folded her arms across her chest and looked at him, a little concerned.
‘Well, it’s hard to say.’
‘A prank?’
‘It most likely is. But it’s unpleasant nevertheless. I’m glad you called. I’ll ask around.’
‘Thank you,’ Dorothea Krogh said, gave him a friendly pat on the back and led the way in front of him out of the church.
Chapter 4
The little girl had barely had time to moor her dinghy to the jetty before another, bigger boat came racing around the headland. Mia had seen it before, a grey, rigid semi-inflatable with two sturdy outboard motors. It had been moored by the Co-op where she shopped for groceries. The logo on its side had attracted her interest as it read Hitra Sport Diving.
‘Oh, that’s all I need.’ The girl sighed and crossed her slim arms over her chest. ‘How old does he think I am? Three?’
She shook her head and stomped in a sulk across the rocks as the attractive grey boat reached the jetty.
‘Sofia?’ the man on the boat called out.
Mia took the rope from the new arrival and tied it to a post as the clearly experienced sailor switched off the motors and climbed up the ladder.
‘Sofia, didn’t I tell you to leave her alone?’
The girl ignored him and ran further up the rocks, disappearing behind a mound.
‘I’m so sorry.’ The man heaved a sigh and brushed his blond fringe away from his eyes. ‘She knows better than to do this. Has she been pestering you?’
Mia smiled.
‘Oh no, it’s nice to have a visitor.’
The man apologized once more and then extended his hand to her. She had noticed him as well as his boat near the Co-op. Slim, good posture, about her age, with blue eyes and a T-shirt with the same logo as on the boat. She didn’t do this often, but she had actually paused to watch him while he lugged oxygen tanks on board.
She hadn’t been able to put her finger on it, but she had the feeling that she had seen him somewhere before.
‘My name is Simon. Again, I’m really sorry about this, but she has been obsessed with meeting you ever since she realized who you were.’
‘Mia Krüger,’ Mia introduced herself.
The man laughed.
‘Yes, and don’t I know it. Like I said, she has talked of little else. Only this time I failed to stop her. I should never have bought her that dinghy, but you know. The sea.’ He turned and gestured towards it.
‘It’s better that kids get to know it sooner rather than later, I think. Sofia!’
Simon shrugged apologetically once more.
‘I’ll go and get her. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.’
Mia smiled.
‘It’s all right. But she seemed upset? Something about it being her fault? That boy?’
A dark gaze this time.
‘Ah, yes, I’m sorry. She was with him. The night he disappeared. Jonathan Holmen. I don’t know if you’re familiar with . . .’
‘Oh, yes,’ Mia said.
And who wasn’t? Norway was a small country. The case had attracted considerable attention at the time. An eight-year-old boy riding his bike home, and then he just vanishes without a trace. It was Kripos, Norway’s national crime agency, rather than her unit, that had been tasked with the investigation.
‘But she’s wrong?’
Mia could smell saltwater and sunshine as the attractive man carefully passed her on the narrow jetty and followed his daughter up the rocks.
‘Yes, of course she is. What could she possibly have done?’
‘So why does she think that it’s her fault?’
He shook his head.
‘She’s far too sensitive. She lets things get to her. If her mother had been here, perhaps it would have been easier, but there is only me, so . . .’
SAMUEL BJØRK
The man turned and chewed his lip as if he had said more than he had intended to.
‘Sorry, her mother is in Burundi. She’s a doctor. Working for Doctors Without Borders. It’s obviously great that some people go abroad to do this vital work, but for Sofia, well, it has been . . .’
‘I understand.’ Mia nodded and followed him up towards the house.
The girl was sitting defiantly on the steps with her knees pulled up under her floral dress.
She gave her father a stern look as they approached.
‘I’m eleven years old and I can make my own decisions.’
‘Of course, Sofia, but you can’t just—’
‘Yes, I can. It’s my fault that Jonathan went missing so surely I can ask for help if I want to?’
‘Yes, of course, darling, I was just—’
Simon sat down next to her on the stone step and carefully stroked her hair as the girl buried her face in her hands.
‘Why was it your fault?’ Mia said, and sat down on a rock opposite them.
‘Because I could have stopped him.’ The girl began to sob. ‘I told him not to go home on his bike. That he should just wait. That he could have a sleepover, all he had to do was ask her again. She was like that, his mum. When she had had some wine, you know, then she would—’
Her father stopped her.
‘Sofia, we don’t talk about that. We don’t know anything about that, do we?’
‘His mum drank alcohol, is that what you’re saying?’
The girl nodded and carried on.
‘She always did in the evening. And so she couldn’t come and pick him up, do you see? It had happened before. Erik has Super Mario, that’s why we were there. And we were about to fight Bowser, and Jonathan loved fighting Bowser, and the last time we played, we just waited a bit, then he called his mum again and then she said yes.’
‘Sofia, I think that—’
‘No, it’s true. I should have tried harder to make him stay!’ She buried her face in her hands again.
Simon stroked her back to comfort her and exchanged glances with Mia.
‘As I said, Sofia is quite sensitive—’
‘I’m not!’
‘I get it, I do,’ Mia said, moving into the shade.
‘You do?’ the girl exclaimed in surprise.
‘I was like that once. When I was your age.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It wasn’t exactly the same, but I had a sister. She looked a lot like you, come to think of it. Long, blonde hair. Very clever.’
‘Did she also go missing?’
‘Almost.’ Mia nodded. ‘Like you I lived by the sea. And one day she wanted us to go sailing. Even though we weren’t allowed. I tried to talk her out of it because we didn’t have any life vests, but she insisted, and in the end I gave in.’
‘What happened?’ the girl said, and scrunched up her nose.
‘She nearly drowned.’
‘What?’
‘We capsized. Fortunately someone came to our rescue, but she was in hospital for a long time. She got a lot of water in her lungs.’
‘Gosh.’
‘So I know how you feel. Do you think it was my fault? That she almost died?’
‘Eh?’ The girl looked tentatively at her father. ‘Well, I don’t know . . .’
‘We can’t tell other people what to do, can we? Everyone has to make their own choices?’
‘True . . .’
The girl’s father gave Mia a grateful look as he got up and ushered his daughter down the rocks.
‘Great, Sofia. You’ve done what you came to do. Let’s leave Mia in peace now, all right?’
SAMUEL BJØRK
‘What?’ the girl exclaimed. ‘No, I’m not done yet.’ She freed herself and ran back, stopping in front of Mia with big, pleading eyes. ‘Can you find him for me? You’re so clever. Can you find Jonathan? Please?’
Chapter 5
Mia moored her boat at the quay below the Co-op, still unable to get Sofia’s pleading voice out of her head. Nor was there any respite ashore, with a poster on the noticeboard at the entrance to the shop. A faded colour picture of a boy squinting at the camera. It was three years since his disappearance, but the poster was more recent than that. Someone must still be putting them up. Someone hadn’t yet given up hope.
Three years ago.
She had a sudden flashback to a derelict motorhome by Lake Tryvann. Munch and her. A teenage girl had gone missing and they had received a tip-off that she might be there. Mia had been totally unprepared for the man she would encounter there.
Her twin sister’s ex-boyfriend.
The junkie who had got Sigrid hooked on drugs.
She had blacked out most of it.
She only remembered brief glimpses, the explosion inside her. She had shot him in the chest – twice. The ambulance. Everyone in the special unit had been interviewed.
If Munch hadn’t lied, she would have gone to jail. Self-defence. Which it clearly hadn’t been. Murder. She had murdered him. It had been downhill from there. Darkness. Days and nights she couldn’t remember.
Damn it, Mia.
Not that. Don’t go there again.
There was another poster next to the poster of the missing boy. Are you tired of life on Earth?
Come to Jupiter!
SAMUEL BJØRK
She smiled now.
Tired of life?
No.
Not any more.
Hello, new Mia.
She took a deep breath, turned her face to the warm sun and waited until the good feelings came back, then she walked up to the road and continued down towards the garage.
Roar’s Autos.
She had her doubts about getting her car fixed at a local garage, but soon realized that she didn’t have much choice. This part of the island was called Kvenvær and it was possibly the most beautiful part of Hitra. In the Co-op she had overheard tourists whisper the name almost as if it were magic. As if they couldn’t believe that a place like this existed in real life. Pretty wooden houses painted white, red barns, well-tended gardens and fluttering pennants on flagpoles, it was like living postcards, idyllic coastal Norway at its very finest. Roar’s Autos, however, looked like a garage from an impoverished small town in the American Deep South. As if someone had picked up the building and its immediate surroundings, moved it across the Atlantic and dumped it on Hitra by mistake. The cream-coloured single-storey brick building had seen better days and the paint was peeling in several places. The hinges on the garage doors were so rusty that it looked as if you couldn’t close them. Everywhere she turned she saw old cars in various states of disrepair. There was a thin, white metal door at the front and a large window pane which no one had cleaned since it was fitted. Through the grime you might be able to make out the owner’s taste and personality. Topless women torn from various magazines, an old Kenny Rogers record and what had reminded her of the Deep South: a large Confederate flag where the stars had been replaced with cannabis plants.
Her Jaguar was parked exactly where she had left it two weeks earlier, and it stood out like a sore thumb. The English upper-class aesthetic was completely out of place here. Mia was surprised by how quiet it was; there was no ZZ Top music floating across the
oil-stained tarmac. That might be because the only loudspeaker she could see was dangling from a cable in the wall, surrounded by holes in the brickwork that looked like someone had taken shots at it. She had yet to meet the owner; she had just called a number she had found on a piece of paper stuck to the front door and got a message to ‘leave it wherever the hell you like’, and she was curious as to what sort of person would turn up. If the owner was just as much of an American cliché as his surroundings. The only thing missing here was a Ku Klux Klan outfit, but then again, who knew what this place might be hiding?
Mia rounded the corner, and now she could hear music. Muted country songs from a radio in a small workshop with a car on a ramp. Hidden under a baseball cap, a man wearing safety boots and filthy utility clothes was asleep in a camping chair.
‘Hello?’
She knocked softly on the metal doorframe.
‘Are you Roar?’
The man slowly came to life and heaved a sigh when he spotted her, as if she had disturbed him in the middle of something important.
‘Yeah?’
‘Mia Krüger. The Jaguar? I’ve come to find out if it’s ready. It’s not easy to get around the island without a car.’
‘Ready?’ He chortled and displayed a set of teeth that would not appear to have seen a dentist for quite some time.
‘No, no. The crankshaft and the cylinder linings need replacing. It’s a miracle you even made it up here.’
‘I see.’
He got up reluctantly from his chair, the simple act of crossing the floor making him wheeze.
‘I need spare parts from England.’
‘OK? And when are they coming?’
‘You want me to order them?’
‘You mean you haven’t yet . . .’
Mia had to bite her tongue to stop herself from having a go at the guy. She was in the only garage on this part of the island, and if she
SAMUEL BJØRK
was to have any hope of getting her car back on the road, her best bet was not to make Roar even more antagonistic or unhelpful than he already was.
‘Yes, please.’
‘OK,’ Roar said, wiping his hands on a filthy rag. ‘I guess that will take a few weeks.’
‘You wouldn’t happen to have a . . . a courtesy car?’ Mia asked, but knew the answer before she had finished her sentence.
She wasn’t in Oslo any more. She was in the back of beyond.
‘A courtesy car?’ The mechanic grinned, displaying the row of yellow teeth once more.
‘No, I don’t suppose so,’ Mia said.
‘So you’ve got no transport?’
‘No, but thanks all the same.’
She was about to leave when his mood suddenly changed; it was as if he were human after all.
‘I got that one,’ he said, then coughed and nodded in the direction of a piece of tarpaulin at the back of the crammed workshop. ‘Took it as security. Bloody rich kids – the salmon business, you know. They may wear diamond watches, but do they pay their bills? Show-offs – plus-fours and no bloody breakfast.’
Roar put down the rag and pulled off the tarpaulin.
Mia could feel herself grinning from ear to ear.
She was looking at a black Ducati motorcycle with a matte finish.
‘Wow.’
‘Right? So you like bikes?’
Again she caught a glimpse of an actual human being when Roar looked at her with something that, for the first time, resembled a smile.
‘I’m a Harley man myself, I’m not a big fan of these Italian wonders, but yes, it’s a nice bike, there’s no denying it.’ He spat and pushed back his baseball cap. ‘So, yes, like I said, it could be a few weeks. Do you fancy borrowing that in the meantime?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Besides, it’s just taking up space here. So does this courtesy car meet with your approval?’
‘It certainly does.’ ‘Great. I’ll ring through the order today and contact you when your car is ready, how about that?’ ‘Deal,’ said Mia, grinning. And then she rolled the black wonder out into the sunshine.
Chapter 6
Hannah Holmen took one last look about her before she opened the door. Fabian Stengel, psychologist. She had been ashamed the first time she came here, and she still felt a little ashamed now. Not because seeing a psychologist was a bad thing; it was just there was so much gossip out here on Hitra. It was a small place. People were nosy. And if there was anything people had talked about these last few years, then it was her family.
Hannah Holmen, the big sister.
Jonathan Holmen, her little brother.
Three years ago she had been in so much pain that she had barely been able to get dressed. Her feet had struggled to push the pedals on her bicycle; it was as if her body weighed a ton.
She had been early, almost an hour early. Waited on a bench in the shade behind the arts centre, hoping that no one would spot her.
Eleven years.
That’s how old he would have been today.
Hannah walked up the stairs and took a seat in one of the lightcoloured chairs. There was no one else in the waiting room. He was very particular about this, Stengel; he understood where he practised as a psychologist and the people who lived out here on this small island. No one wanted to bump into their neighbour or the mother of someone they had gone to school with in his waiting room, so he always left plenty of time between appointments. Once, well, and yes, this was indeed gossip and Hannah didn’t really like to gossip, but still, this was too juicy to keep to herself. Once, when she had been waiting for her appointment, there had been a handbag on the floor, a very exclusive one, and she had thought, eh?
Who out here can afford a Hermès Birkin? Those bags cost a fortune. And, at that same moment, the door had opened, and who had sneaked out?
Cynthia Prytz.
They had a good laugh at that afterwards in her friend Sylvia’s house, the only place they could hang out now. After all, Jessica’s mum was mental, so no wonder Jessica had turned out the way she had, and in her own home it was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
‘Cynthia Prytz? For real?’ Jessica’s laugh had been even louder than usual, and Sylvia’s eyes had widened so much it had looked as if they might roll out of her head.
‘Seeing a shrink?’
Wearing gloves and sunglasses and a scarf around her head as if she were a movie star from the old days, walking across the floor in her expensive red Marni coat.
Hannah had pretended not to notice her, but she could see that the billionaire’s wife was ashamed.
Cynthia Prytz. The wife of Henry Prytz. Mother of Alexander and Benjamin Prytz. The richest family on the island.
‘There you go,’ Jessica had said. ‘Money isn’t the answer. It just makes you miserable.’
The girls had nodded sagely at that; no one in their families had much money, so it felt good to see proof that even though the Prytz family had Ferraris and Lamborghinis and swimming pools and their own stable of thoroughbred horses, they still needed therapy. And it was then that Jessica had said it; she had lowered her voice and told her friends to come closer, and they had huddled together on the pink carpet.
‘I know things about them.’
Whispering, her eyes dark.
‘Secrets.’
They had been dying to know more, of course, but Jessica had refused to elaborate.
She had just trailed her thumb and index finger across her lips like a zip.
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‘I dread to think what might happen if it came out. That’s all I’m willing to say.’
‘Hannah?’
The psychologist suddenly appeared, smiling, and invited her into his consulting room, and she felt good, safer in there behind the closed door.
At her first appointment she had thought it was like entering another world. Calm. Secure. There was no desk or any kind of couch; she had dreaded having to lie on one. Fabian Stengel sat in a beige leather chair, and she sat in an identical one opposite him. The carpet on which the chairs were set out was white and incredibly soft. A bookcase on one wall, not crammed, only a dozen books arranged according to colour.
She had felt so comfortable in there. So comfortable that she almost felt guilty.
I wish I could stay here for ever, that I would never have to go home.
To the dead house.
To the dead eyes.
Her mum.
Who had been so vibrant.
Who had been her great idol.
Reduced to a shrivelled ghost.
Silent on the sofa in the living room.
She didn’t even turn on the TV.
Not a sound.
Anywhere.
‘How are you, Hannah?’
She pushed the dark thoughts aside.
‘I’m fine,’ Hannah said, tucking her legs underneath her in the chair.
‘And your mum, how is she?’
‘Same as always.’
‘She still won’t talk about it?’
Hannah shook her head.
‘Today’s a special day, isn’t it? Do you want to talk about it?’
She hesitated. She could feel that she didn’t really want to.
The sixteenth of July.
The third anniversary of his disappearance.
She had hoped that they could go together. To the place where he was last seen. But, no.
She had cycled there on her own, just like last year. Picked flowers along the way.
‘Do I have to?’ Hannah said eventually, hoping that the lump in her stomach that had been growing as she cycled here wouldn’t come out as tears.
‘No, no, of course not. You’re in charge. This is your space. We can talk about anything.’
She had resisted the suggestion to begin with. Seeing a psychologist. She had thought that everything about him was dumb. His name. Who calls themselves Fabian Stengel? He sounded like a character in a children’s book. And who dresses like that in real life? A shirt and a waistcoat? Glasses with thick black frames? Was he running an art gallery? Did he think he lived in New York? These were not her thoughts, that was just how people talked about him out here, down at the café in the shopping arcade, at the bowling alley: self-obsessed, arrogant, fancies himself, thinks he’s something special.
But Fabian Stengel had proved to be anything but self-obsessed and arrogant. He was a really nice guy. He listened. He had kind eyes. And yes, he was old, over forty at least, and yet there was something about him that made her feel that somehow he understood her. She had blurted it out during her first session. She had been to the library, she had borrowed a book by Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood, she had lain awake under her duvet until she had finished reading it, stunned by the beauty of the story.
‘Sometimes I feel like the girl in Norwegian Wood,’ she had told him.
He had smiled in surprise.
‘Right, so you read Murakami?’ Curious, leaning forward in his chair. ‘So what do you mean? Why do you think you’re like her?’
She had chewed her lip. It had been so strange to tell someone what she really thought.
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‘Well, because she’s so sad. But she doesn’t know why.’
At her next appointment there had been a book on the armrest.
‘It’s for you,’ he had said, smiling.
‘J. D. Salinger?’
‘The Catcher in the Rye. So this is about a boy, but it’s also about being different. About not feeling at home in this world of ours. Read it if you like. I’d love to know what you think.’
It was so good. That someone took her seriously. A grown man she could confide in, with whom she could share her innermost thoughts.
‘Like I said,’ Fabian Stengel continued, ‘we can talk about today as something special or we can treat it like any other day. Is that what you want, that we talk about something else instead?’
Hannah nodded. She was already starting to feel better. The lump was diminishing; it was almost gone.
‘So you’ve finished Year Eleven. Do you want to talk about that? Have you thought about what you will do in the autumn? Will you stay here on the island or are you still thinking about moving to Trondheim to continue your education?’
Get her own place. In the city of Trondheim. Far away from all this. She had lain awake recently, mulling it over, but had come to the conclusion that it was hopeless. She couldn’t abandon her.
Her mum.
She didn’t have the heart to leave her sitting in the dead house all alone.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘OK. So what about your friends, then? Will they stay here or are they also considering academic options on the mainland?’
Hannah had to smile at this.
Jessica and Sylvia.
Yes, they were her best friends, but nothing about them could be called academic – they probably didn’t even know what the word meant. Nothing wrong with that, of course, but there were some things she could never discuss with them.
Maths. That was what she wanted to study. Whereas Jessica was interested in America.
They had been sitting in the back of Andres Wold’s car last week with a bottle of hooch and some pills, and they had been quite high, and when she was high, Jessica would always start fantasizing.
‘Los Angeles! How amazing would that be? I mean, it’s where the Kardashians live. Can’t we just run away to America, the three of us?’
Poor Jessica. Sometimes she felt really sorry for her. Everyone knew that her mum partied with dodgy people at home. Jessica didn’t even have a proper bedroom; instead, she had borrowed an old boat where she would sleep from time to time.
‘And Disneyland! I’ve read about it online. We could get jobs there – we could be the meet-and-greet characters. How cool would that be?’
The weekends in Andres Wold’s car. She shuddered. Her mum would never have let her hang out with that crowd. Not in the past. But now . . .
‘You talked about a party the last time you were here? Isn’t that tonight? The costume party?’
Fabian Stengel pushed his glasses further up his nose and squinted at the calendar on the small round side table next to his chair.
Hannah nodded.
‘Yes, that’s tonight, but I’m not sure . . .’
‘What’s on your mind?’
‘Well, I’m not sure if I want to go.’
‘Why not?’
She hesitated for a moment.
‘Well . . . all the others like to . . .’
Fabian Stengel furrowed his brow.
‘Are you worried about drugs and alcohol?’
‘Oh, no, or maybe I am . . .’
‘But it’s only natural, isn’t it? For people to experiment a bit when they’re your age? As long as it’s in moderation?’
In moderation?
Last Friday, she had feared they would have to call an ambulance. Jessica had mixed booze and pills, as usual, and Hannah had struggled to rouse her.
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‘Costume – that’s fun, isn’t it, or is it just stupid?’
‘Oh, no, that’s fun.’
‘Have you thought about what you’ll dress up as? Are you going to be princesses or fairies or mermaids?’
Hannah laughed. ‘No, that’s for little girls.’
‘And you’re not little girls any more, I get it. Jessica, was it? And . . .’
‘Sylvia.’ Hannah nodded.
‘It’s still the three of you who hang out together most of the time?’
‘Yes.’
Fabian leaned forwards in his chair again.
‘I think you should go, Hannah. I think it would do you good. Today, of all days. A chance to get out of the house.’
‘True.’
‘I have a suit and a spare pair of glasses if you want to borrow them, then you can go as a male psychologist.’
Hannah laughed again.
‘Oh, no, we already have our costumes.’
‘Right, so tell me about them?’
‘Well, you know Jessica, she’s mad about Disney. She ordered some face masks online.’
‘Funny.’ Fabian Stengel smiled. ‘And which ones did you get?’
‘Jessica is going to be Mickey Mouse, I’ll be Donald Duck and Sylvia will be Goofy. It’s silly, I know.’
Fabian Stengel glanced discreetly at the clock on the table.
‘Sounds good, sounds good. Sounds funny. But listen, Hannah?’
‘Yes?’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Sure about what?’
‘The sixteenth of July? It’s three years ago today. Are you sure that we’re not going to talk about it?’
‘Yes.’
‘No problem. I just had to make sure. Is there anything else you’d like to talk about during your time today?’
Hannah pondered this for a little while before she replied.
‘I wonder, is it OK if I just sit here without saying anything?’
‘OK? Yes, of course. Is there any specific reason why you . . .’
‘No. I just like being here.’
‘Then that’s what we’ll do.’ Fabian Stengel smiled. ‘Would you like me to leave?’
‘No, there’s no need.’
Just silence. In here. For several minutes.
Hannah Holmen closed her eyes and leaned her head against the headrest of the beige chair.
Chapter 7
Luca Eriksen couldn’t remember the last time he had had two phone calls in one day as he sat in the police car outside the entrance to Europris House & Garden at the end of the high street, wishing that the caller could have been someone else. Not that he had anything against Caroline, the hairdresser; no, it was the sign on the door next to her salon that niggled him.
Fabian Stengel.
He had tried to avoid them as best he could after the accident. The three other couples Amanda and he used to hang out with. Card games on Wednesdays. On Saturdays it was usually dinner parties, often eating outside if the weather allowed it. The constant messages and texts on his phone. Didn’t they get it? That he was no longer interested? That all he wanted was to be left alone?
Hey, Luca, it’s Karin here, we’re having a barbecue on Saturday. Fancy joining us?
Hey, mate, it’s John, we’re thinking of taking the boat to Ulvøya, want to come along?
Hey, Luca, are you there? It’s Fabian again, just calling to let you know that I’m here for you if you want to talk. Or we can talk in my consulting room if you prefer? Why don’t I make an appointment for you? Just tell me when. I’ll be happy to clear my schedule, all right?
The psychologist.
Luca had tried, he really had.
Prawns and crusty bread and home-brewed beer and everyone trying to act normal, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Eight people around the big table, except they were no longer eight, were they? Now they were only seven.